the world is cruel (so let me protect you)
by Enterpraise
Summary: There was no other answer that Bilbo could supply as he held the book against his chest with a unrelenting hand. "I forgave you long ago, you insufferable oaf."
1. Chapter 1

The foreign dignitaries sent from the respective kingdom of the Ironfists were a handful to say the least; and honestly, with the amount of inappropriate insinuations targeting the king and family line it was a wonder in itself that Thorin had not leapt over the table and pummeled the representatives into the stone. Bilbo on the other hand was suffering from a minor concussion-thanks to a rather sturdy and unwelcome rock thrown from a unknowing dwarfling's untrained hand, what was it with him and head injuries?-and was struggling arduously to rein in his anger.

The bad blood between the Ironfists and the Longbeards was widely known and widely loathed; particularly hated to certain extents depending on the clan. The greed of the Ironfist dwarves spanned from the Orocarni mountains to Erebor, leaving a lengthy and telling trail that spoke volumes of their insatiable lust for all that glitters. The jealously however, broadcasted throughout the whole of Middle Earth. It was because of centuries of distrust, unscrupulous motives, and war that relations between the two clans was horrendous.

Thankfully, the immensely uncomfortable assembly included the dwarves from the Ironhills as well, collectively known as the King Under the Mountain's best friends in times of need and clan clashing (well, to Balin and Bilbo at least).

After the third jab on Kili's lack of a proper dwarf beard and Thorin's questionable capabilities regarding ruling a mighty dwarf kingdom, Bilbo felt his Tookish side flare and fester in rebellion. He'd rather that dastardly side just stay quiet in such a densely political and heartbreakingly tense situation but the urge to smack the dwarrow named Ragar son of Hagar, son of Ongar turned into a need some fifteen minutes in. However, Thorin's concise directions from earlier that morn rang something obnoxious in his head and Bilbo forcibly swallowed his un-hobbity rage (no doubt something he had picked up on from the company of thirteen bloody dwarves during that god-forsaken journey.)

"Erebor is a prosperity in itself, Master Dwarf," Thorin stated smoothly, the only indication of any inner fury was a minuscule clench in his jaw. "While your offer stands in the light of all things true, I shall have to decline. My kingdom is flourishing under the hands of those who have shown unyielding loyalty and irreplaceable respect for myself, the royal line, and Durin's folk in their entirety."

_'Oh dear,' _Bilbo thought with a start. _'Here it comes.'_

"Unlike the Ironfists of the Eastern-Northern mountains who only follow in the corrupted wake of their only master: greed!" Thorin had shot up out of his chair, causing the piece of furniture to screech discordantly against the smooth stone.

Bilbo knew it was of chief importance that he attempt to soothe the king's rage but a larger part of him cheered on the king. No one insulted his family and got away with it and Bilbo agreed wholeheartedly.

"You have come into my kingdom offering help," Thorin maintained his kingly bearings but his deep, melodious voice had morphed into something uglier and more powerful than most. "A most honorable act for any other than the dwarrows who had turned their nose up at the sight of Durin's folk fleeing from their home and refused us the means of salvation by looking the other way!" The king bellowed, his feet planted firmly on the floor and his face contorted in seething hate.

The message was clear to all who had a lick of common sense: get out of my kingdom.

Unbeknownst to Thorin-and frankly, the rest of the dwarrows and dwarrowdams of Erebor-the surge of pride and respect that sparked through Bilbo was a feeling he had been privy to ever since the King Under the Mountain had woken up from his battle-induced coma. It was tiring task, feeling those blossoming buds of respect burst open almost every time Thorin spoke and did not mention the preciousness of the Arkenstone or his vast hoards of treasure sitting dormant in ivory vaults below Bilbo's feet-quite the job it was.

All it took was a near death experience, the teetering along the line of life and death for Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, High Lord of Erebor Reclaimed, King of Durin's Folk, (and several other epithets and royal titles that Bilbo cast aside because goodness knows the dwarrow did not need an ego boost anymore than he needed a shave) to realize his grievous wrong-doings.

Succumbing to the gold sickness he had been determined to bypass and avoid had been the near fatal wound to Thorin's upcoming rule upon the throne of Erebor. It had all but shattered Bilbo's heart, the sight of the great, and most importantly good, dwarf hunched over an enormous pile of the defiled treasure muttering sweet nothing's to the hunks of rocks as if they were the only thing dear to him.

The sickened Thorin's mind began to rot and twist, leaving the ever growing smaller parts of what used to be the true Thorin Oakenshield to fade away silently and painfully. His unmovable stand on honor andhis unquestionable bravery swiftly convoluted into unworthy deceit and stubbornness of a darker kind. The intelligence and natural regality awed by all morphed into a vain, cruel being whose hold on power by nominal and familial ties left no room for naysayers.

The born warrior and upstanding leader had been devastated when put against a siren call of a incomprehensibly large dragon hoard.

In those few weeks, Bilbo steered clear of Thorin as much as he could manage. The strain upon his heart had become more and more laborious than he could have ever imagined. Clutching onto the Mithril coat that Thorin had bestowed upon him before slinking back into the treasure room was what kept the hobbit's hope alive. However, that foolish hope had been swept away at the horrific news of legions upon legions of Orcs and Goblins lurking nearer and nearer to the last great Dwarven stronghold. Thorin's recalcitrance and utter surety in the strength of the Ironhill dwarves was the last straw for Bilbo. Even if the rest of the company thought that they had suddenly acquired the nonexistent power of invincibility, Bilbo knew better.

So he gave away the Arkenstone. To protect his newfound family and all that shone good and bright within them; even if that pure light was hidden by shadows of impurity and sin.

It had almost cost him his life, but he would never regret his actions.

With a unnecessary clamor and an assortment of vile sneers, the Ironfist diplomats thundered out of Erebor's reception hall (Bilbo had laughed at Thorin's blatant disregard for propriety and Balin had just shaken his head in amusement and ordered for the King's meeting room to be closed.)

As the stampede of angry dwarrows and their less than desirable spouses with their impossible cleavage and leery gazes made haste to the chambers graciously loaned to them for a day and a night, Bilbo took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Being the Advisor to the King including and not limited to Foreign, Native, and Local Affairs, as well as, on several occasions, the King Under the Mountain's personal advisor, was no easy feat.

Thorin had, originally, so many blasted advisors appointed to him that the Dwarven king had nearly thrown all of his subjects out of the kingdom himself, for dwarves have a knack and skill for melding arguments out of thin air and obstinately holding a life long grudge when opposing opinions arise.

Bilbo remembered, after the petrifying scare Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had given him by literally drowning their still bodies in said dwarves' (and some orcs) blood on the battlefield, how Thorin had abruptly sat up on the fourth day of his convalescence and darted his eyes wildly around the healer's tent until he found Bilbo, ragged and worn, sitting by his side holding a fresh poultice and looking equally astonished.

It was all terribly dramatic, Bilbo feeling his eyes glisten at the sight of a very much alive Thorin (his eyes no longer muddled and borderline black, but clear and precious as prized sapphires) and, well, Bilbo couldn't pinpoint the king's inner feelings but he did almost shy away under the entirely too intense gaze Thorin was giving him to.

The moment was ruined however, when Thorin keeled over and muttered in broken Westron, "Master Baggins, it seems I have broken my stitches," and promptly fainted.

Later on, Thorin would vehemently deny ever fainting. He would entitle his small episode as 'passing out under the influence of severe pain and an overwhelming smell of Elvish medicine.'

Bilbo's light laughter at the recollection that carried out not but a year ago echoed throughout the hall. Unknowingly, he had gotten himself caught up in reminiscing about times past. The act was becoming less common in occurrence as Bilbo's days were spent forging new memories and connections, but it was one of those rare flashbacks that left a euphoric aftertaste. More often times than naught, remembrance was a morbid affair, something Bilbo had no taste for.

"If I may intrude, but what's gotten you up in the cloud of hilarity, laddie?" Chimed Balin from the small marble (with golden edges and ends; plus red, red rubies embedded into the thick legs-Bilbo had called it ostentatious, Thorin had smirked cockily in return) table that held the diverse selection of spirits, ales, and wines-per Bilbo's request.

Bilbo hastily looked at Balin, embarrassed that he had been caught with his head in the clouds and his mind in the folds of time. "Oh, nothing of importance." He affirmed before casting a disapproving eye at the overly indulgent tankard of ale Balin had poured for himself. "Balin, might I remind you that getting plastered before a council meeting-"

"Is perfectly acceptable, Master Baggins and Mahal save me from perdition, I need a drink." Growled Thorin as he swept in behind Balin and gracefully stole the large tankard of ale.

Besides looking miffed at becoming the victim of theft from a king, Balin quickly set to making himself another drink. Bilbo was pleased to see that it was, in fact, smaller than the last.

He switched his parental fury towards Thorin instead. "Your Majesty, alcohol dampers your senses and hinders your ability to act and react in a proper and kingly manner." Thorin snorted and Balin appeared amused whilst nodding along in agreeance and sipping heartily at his own mug. "Do not snort insolently at me, Thorin Oakenshield. I am only watching out for your health." Bilbo snapped, his nerves frayed from being hauled to multiple meetings, all equally exhausting and tedious.

Thorin lifted an eyebrow and calmly got up from his chair. Bilbo watched the king lift a ring covered hand and delicately pour a small glass of red wine. The hobbit observed with a good amount of disbelief and humor as halfway through the pour, the king realized he had been pouring the red wine, not from Esgorath, but from Thranduil's caverns, and retrieved a cloth from somewhere on his person and covered his hand with it so as to not touch the Elf infested bottle.

With a grimace, Thorin set the glass down with a distasteful clunk in front of Bilbo. "Here you are, my dear Advisor. From what I've heard, red wine is quite excellent for one's health and the calming benefits are quite superb."

Bilbo let out a strangled laugh. "And this also includes Elvish wine, I presume?"

When the king glared at the hobbit, Bilbo snickered outright and small hands carefully wrapped themselves along the glass. "Of course, of course," He said merrily. "I thank you, my liege."

Thorin graced him with one of his rarely seen, rarely made toothy smiles. A crooked, darling thing that made the warrior king seem much more alive and happy than he let on. "You are most definitely welcome, Master Baggins."

When the King Under the Mountain reached his seat once more, Balin hoisted his mug of ale in the air with a content '_cheers_'; Thorin and Bilbo soon followed suit, clandestinely shooting each other bemused looks.

Cheers, indeed.

* * *

When Bilbo met Lady Dís, the dwarrowdam had leveled him with a fierce frown accompanied by a positively austere demeanor. The resemblance to Thorin came as a complete shock; the two dwarfs were practically twins if their phenotypes were anything to go by, but their personalities were the discerning factor. Lady Dís had grown up under Thorin's care for the majority of her life and, in turn, had picked up upon his shrewdness (to a greater degree), his intellect (to a greater degree in certain areas), his regal manner, and his penchant for vengeance (Bilbo did not care to find out what degree Dís's vengeful streak was because Thorin's was bad enough.)

Lady Dís, unlike her brother, was wickedly cunning and unrepentant of her questionable methods at protecting the welfare of Erebor and her subjects; and while Thorin was not soft, he was not the type to assassinate people in the delves of darkness or threaten the dwarfhood of miscreants who had gone to far. No, Thorin would just single the guilty out and, with a brave swing of Orcrist, cut off limbs until the punishment was deemed fulfilled.

'_Brutes_,' Bilbo griped to himself as he dusted the Royal Wing's library. _'The lot of them. Especially the dwarrowdams.'_ He shivered, recalling Dwalin almost getting castrated for coming precariously close to stepping on Gloin's wife's battle axe.

Suffice to say, Bilbo and Lady Dís got along splendidly. Her wily wit and shameless humor matched Bilbo's devious cleverness and unabashed charm. The reactions to this newfound friendship varied by dwarf. Kíli and Fíli looked tremendously mirthful at the news of the developing relationship between their mother and their favorite hobbit (Bilbo had pointed out he was the only hobbit they knew but Fíli and Kíli merely shrugged the fact off), Thorin had looked like a cornered animal, eyes wide with suspicion and claws out to scratch, Balin smiled knowingly, and the rest of the dwarves looked at Bilbo as if he was some sort of god.

It was unnerving and quite welcome at the same time. The Baggins side of him quickly apprehended the Tookish love of attention and Bilbo forced the dwarves to 'stop looking at me as if I'm Yavanna herself.'

Dís had laughed at his snarky comment. It was then and there that Bilbo knew he and Dís were bound to have a lasting bond, in a manner akin to friendship and family, not romantic. No, Dís had already lost her One and for dwarves that meant that she had lost apart of herself and there was no dwarrow or dwarrowdam that could refill that gap.

There was also the fact that Bilbo had absolutely no free time for dalliances or love. Honestly, for such a small word the weight that hid behind it loomed over a person, once ensnared, and became a dominant responsibility in one's life. Oftentimes, love became a hinderance, a savior, a power that stretch beyond the realm of understanding.

Bilbo Baggins could not partake in something that required meticulous care and burning passion. No thank you, he had ancient Dwarven artifacts to un-deface and books to dust. A much more important and overall safer way of going about life if you asked him.

His attention had been focused on a rather charred blueprint of the Eastern Diamond Mines of Erebor Section A-XXI when the soft rap from the entryway made the working hobbit glance upwards towards the source of the distracting sound. To his surprise, it was the king himself; dressed in a frugal dark blue tunic and soft black breeches, Thorin had never looked so _Thorin_-Bilbo didn't have a better word for it.

At the refreshing change, Bilbo let loose a breath he had not realized was being held in. "Your Majesty, what brings you to your library?" Bilbo asked lightly.

Thorin huffed in amusement. "Balin forced me out of my office. Working myself to an early grave, he said," He answered curtly, running his fingers along the spines of a row of books with a odd amount of tenderness Bilbo had never seen before. "And there I go, back to my chambers, only to see plumes of dust invading the hallways."

Bilbo blanched slightly, not realizing that the dust had spread all the way out to the carpeted halls. "Oh bother," He said worriedly. "I honestly had no idea." Setting the blueprints down with prudence, Bilbo fetched a wet rag and began wiping his handshurriedly. "Let me go assess the damage done and close the door."

"No," Thorin interrupted with furrowed eyebrows. "That is not...It was supposed to be a jest." He ended lamely.

"Well I never," Bilbo let out a bark of taken aback laughter. "Are you alright, my king?"

Thorin appeared offended by the mere notion of him being out of sorts. "I am perfectly fine, my friend. And Mahal's sake, Bilbo, there is no need for formality in private chambers such as these."

Flushing slightly, Bilbo nodded slowly before turning back to the awaiting blueprints with a small smile upon his lips. "If you say so, Thorin."

The name came out awkwardly, but that was to be expected seeing as Bilbo hardly ever met Thorin by himself as the duties of a king were severely undermined and achingly torturous.

"See, that wasn't so hard now was it?" Said a Thorin with a pleasant, rich rumble.

"Don't you get cheeky with me, my liege. King or not, I know several successful methods on how to reprimand trouble making fauntlings with sassy mouths." Bilbo grumbled while slipping on a pair of silver rimmed spectacles given to him by Balin when he had first agreed on staying at Erebor and taking on the job of being a King's Advisor.

Thorin looked up from a recently dusted volume of dwarvish poetry. "I am not a fauntling." He said peevishly.

With a undignified snort, Bilbo carefully rolled the blueprints up and placed them cautiously back into their slot. "Of course you aren't."

After a few moments passed of relatively compatible silence, the Dwarven king and the hobbit lapsed into a shared peace. Bilbo was occupying his time productively by continuing his attack upon dust mites and burn marks while Thorin had nestled himself into the corner of a plush couch and soon fell asleep.

It made Bilbo's heart flutter and his stomach do strange twists and clenches, when he looked at the resting king. While he had always thought Thorin was an incrediblyhandsome dwarrow-as did most, no matter the race-but there was something much more appealing in his personality. Bilbo admired his strength and heart of gold (it was a shimmering, pure gold; not the desolate, darkgold of Smaug.) He admired the gentlepaternal side of the dwarf, as seen with Fíli and Kíli and a couple of Erebor's newly acquired children. There was more good to Thorin than the dwarf knew; he was just his own harshest judge and never seemed to be satisfied with himself but instead, always with others.

Thorin was never the same around Bilbo after the madness that occurred atop of Erebor's outer battlements. The king treated Bilbo with an infuriatingly careful hand after the two had made their peace, as if the hobbit was an antsy rabbit who would startle away if he took a wrong step. Gems atop of gold atop of piles of clothing had been gifted to him by Thorin's hand but Bilbo had been enraged at the material and impersonal gifts and informed Thorin that he could not buy his favor just as Bilbo could not buy Thorin's crown.

The recovering king had nodded somberly and walked away only to return with a tattered book written in Khuzdûl.

_"It is the story of a tortoise and a hare," Thorin informed while running a hand over the cover lovingly. "My mother used to read it to me when I was young. I retrieved it before my people and I were forced to escape from our home. It is one of the only things I have left from her." With a deep breath, Thorin had slowly opened Bilbo's palm and placed the book into his hand. "I know of your great love for books, Master Baggins and I know that I have wronged you in so many ways that forgiveness seems bleak."_

_Bilbo breathed raggedly, overwhelmed beyond measure. "My king, I-"_

_"But I ask for it anyways. Forgive me...Bilbo." Thorin asked sorrowfully, his normally blazing eyes cast dim with regret. _

_There was no other answer that Bilbo could supply as he held the book against his chest with a unrelenting hand. "I forgave you long ago, you insufferable oaf." _

* * *

"The greatest gift you could give me," Bilbo had said one night while he stood beside Thorin's bedridden figure. "Is a promise that you _will_ get better and rule Erebor with a just and firm heart."

Thorin had nodded slowly, fatigue etched across his gaunt face; much blood had been lost during the race to save his life after the Battle of Five Armies. "You have my word, my dear burglar, but you must also promise me this: that you will stay in Erebor with me until you grow tired of my faults."

Bilbo had placed a soft hand upon Thorin's callused one and squeezed gently. "To make sure you carry out your promise truthfully?" Shaking his head, Bilbo had closed his eyes. "I promise to you, Thorin Oakenshield, that I will stay with you until the end of my days for death is the only reason I would ever leave you."

"I am sorry." Thorin had whispered later that night, his hand barely able to move even as he attempted to return Bilbo's hold. "For everything."

"As am I," Bilbo had whispered back amidst the anguished cries of the healing and the grieving. "As am I."

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are greatly appreciated. F & F if you like! Thanks for reading, as always.**


	2. Chapter 2

It was late at night, when the stars waltzed and twinkled in the midnight blue sky (that always, without fail, reminded him of Thorin) and the moon cast her ethereal rays upon the kingdom of Erebor so as to bless the mountain that Bilbo Baggins son of Bungo and Belladonna Took nee Baggins, Advisor to the King concerning Diplomatic Relations and Affairs (it had been condensed), esteemed Hobbit of the Shire, Lord of Bag-End decided that a smoke was indeed, the way to spend the next few minutes of his life.

Bringing out the pipe by it's newly added smooth, polished handle that sparkled in the moonlight, Bilbo quickly set to digging out a box of matches from his coat pocket.

Feeling around the soft fabric and the loose threads, Bilbo paused in his search for a moment and stared up at the moon. A reminder. An eternal reminder of how far his dwarves and he had come (his Dwarven family–yes, they were his as much as he was theirs.) The dwarves: from wandering vagabonds to proud inhabitants of the beauty that was Erebor; Bilbo: from a cowardly hobbit his mother would have beaten upside the head with a pan to someone–still, a hobbit thankfully–that he truthfully did not fully understand nor comprehend.

Fearless, they called him.

Courageous and kind, they declared.

A burglar who is so much more than a burglar, they whispered sagely.

The moon brought the dwarves home and the sun guided them; brought Bilbo to a place where the fields were barren and dead. No grass or any species of flowers related to those in the Shire that popped up out of the ground and fanned their roots out underneath the earth existed in such mountainous terrains. Only Dale seemed to have the plentiful soil and proper influence of the sun that Bilbo desired for himself up in the cold, cold –but oh so homely and warm– mountain that was once lonely.

Bilbo related to the mountain on a spiritual level. He felt as if they were kindred spirits that had been united by the sweat and blood of a company composed of 13 dwarves that wanted their home and happiness back, plus a hobbit who had strange ways of looking at life and just didn't want to be alone anymore.

He blew a ring of smoke, watching it ripple in the chilled breeze.

_'Strange, isn't it,'_ he thought pensively. _'That everything worked out in the end.'_ The ring of smoke disbanded in the wind and vanished from Bilbo's sight in mere seconds. '_But how easily this good life and be taken away.'_

"Like dust in the wind, we are." Supplemented the king from behind him; his deep, baritone voice traveling down the balcony walls and pathway, piercing Bilbo with the sheer power it held. "You were thinking aloud, my friend." Thorin sounded bemused at how high Bilbo had jumped from his unintentional scare.

Bilbo whipped around and almost dropped his pipe at the unexpected visitor. The king must have just eaten his dinner. "Thorin Oakenshield, are you trying to kill me?" The '_again_' that Bilbo hadn't even meant to imply shot up in all its glory and cast a dark cloud over the two. "I mean, you gave me quite the fright!" He chuckled nervously, his fingers twitching and hands shaking.

"It was not my intention to scare you, nor did the abhorring thought of attempting murder cross my mind." Thorin spoke gravely; his brows set in what Bilbo had come to recognize as pain not anger. "I thought you would understand by now that I will never hurt you. The shame and grief such an action would bring upon me would be far too much to withhold."

He hated that look etched upon Thorin's face. It pained him to realize that most of the time, the king's face was distorted so; his fault or not, it was a wide known fact that Thorin completely disregarded his own pursuit of happiness so that he could solidify his subjects'. No matter how long the lectures were worn out, Thorin and his unbeatable stubbornness were determined to make their people happy and ensure that they stayed at peace.

Bilbo nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the moon, hyper aware of the dwarf coming up behind him and the waves of body heat that seemed to caress his person, soothing his troubles.

"Yes, yes, you silly dwarf. It was wrong of me to be so presumptuous–even if I was truly just joking. The fault is mine and the jest was in very poor form. You are most certainly not to blame. At all," Thorin looked unconvinced from his position besides Bilbo. "Thorin, not at all, and do not give me that look that tells me you are questioning my words; its true. Not your fault. It was never your fault."

To an extent.

But Bilbo wouldn't say that; he wanted to comfort Thorin, not make him melancholic and even more grievous. Thorin leveled him with an intense gaze.

"Your kindness," He breathed outwards and averted his gaze towards the plains below. "Some might say it will become your downfall, and I have to agree." Bilbo opened his mouth to retort but Thorin raised a hand to stop him. "Your kindness is a blessing, Master Baggins. Truly a blessing. But I plead with you to take caution with such a beautiful gift. Deceitful people will see you and exploit you because they simply can." The dwarf king looked back at Bilbo with sorrowful eyes. "And that would cause me great pain and anger, my friend. To see you hurt again."

There was nothing Bilbo could say to that. He didn't trust his voice at the moment and his heart was beating so fast he feared it would collapse at any given time. Thorin had an uncanny ability for rendering Bilbo speechless. Having a introverted personality and the bearing of pure regality, Thorin rarely spoke about his inner feelings (but Mahal above, the dwarf had no problems speaking his mind) and to hear such sincere worry from the dwarf left him shell-shocked.

Moments of heavy silence passed; Bilbo spent them continuing with his smoke and moon-gazing, Thorin himself appeared as equally entranced by the moon as Bilbo was and it quickly became a shared pleasure. Out of the blue, a low chuckle emitted from Thorin with a imperceptible shake of his head.

"You know me so _well_, Bilbo. Sometimes, it shocks even myself." The dwarf rumbled in mild fascination. Letting out a tiny laugh, Bilbo leaned over the banister and closed his eyes as he let the wind blow through his hair.

"So you think my gift of kindness is beautiful but what else, my king?"

It had been asked in a playful tone, Bilbo had expected the dwarf to just laugh and maybe scoot closer to the hobbit and share some of his impossible body heat. Bilbo had not foreseen the answer Thorin gave him in all seriousness.

"You."

* * *

"Master Baggins, how is the book coming?" Thorin had asked whilst sifting through the pile of papers that had been delivered early that morning.

Bilbo had smiled and resumed looking out the window. "I have already finished it and am ready for you to read me this one." He pulled out Thorin's (technically it was his now) childhood book with extreme prudence from his satchel. "But only if you have time, seeing as we've only been in Erebor for two months."

Snorting, Thorin had placed the papers he had been organizing back on his desk in a clumsy pile. "Well then I'll just have to make time, won't I, my hobbit?"

It had been the first time Thorin had referred to him in such a possessive manner. There had been rare instances of '_my burglar_' but never _'my hobbit'_. A step in their fragile relationship it was, and it was welcomed with open arms and a healthy red blush.

With a flush and a stutter Bilbo had just taken a sip of his tea and rolled his eyes. "Y-yes, I guess you will."

"Aye," Thorin had grinned merrily, the sight making Bilbo clutch into his tea cup because with every passing day, Thorin was getting better and better (gold sickness is a pernicious foe and Oín still gave Thorin remedial herbal tea out of caution) and it pleased Bilbo immensely that he was receiving his one-of-a-kind friend back, slowly but surely.

"Let us begin."

Fifteen minutes later, Bilbo had fallen asleep to a voice like smooth thunder and a deep melody of Khuzdûl.

* * *

"I-I..." Bilbo trailed off. His hands grasping the stone banister so tightly that his knuckles were turning white with pressure; his face a flustered mess and his eyes wide with surprise. "Excuse me?"

Thorin shook his head in regret and took a step further from Bilbo. His own expression was resigned, defeated under the impression of rejection.

"Mahal," He grit out, running a hand over his face. "Please forgive my crassness. I meant to... Well, I did not think that through." He sighed outwards.

Bilbo just stood there. Heart thumping like an impatient rabbit's foot and tongue tied in the strongest of knots.

The Dwarven king look awfully handsome in the moonlight.

Taking the hobbit's silence as assured rejection, the king stood awkwardly, besides Bilbo, before crisply turning to leave with a formal bow and goodbye.

Fearless, they called him.

Courageous and kind, they declared.

What would they say when they found out all of their praises about him were completely and utterly false?

Bilbo Baggins avoided romantic love like the plague for a good reason. It was pure evil (of course he was exaggerating because love is never pure evil; Bilbo was just furious with himself and with Thorin so dramatic flares and accusations did not seen too far out.) Sneaking up behind him and shooting him through his heart with an unmerciful arrow dripping with responsibility, commitment, and unadulterated bliss. Unfair, that's what it was. Irritably unfair.

The king of Erebor had held his heart ever since the first meeting–even if he was an arrogant prick (oh look, now he's sunk so low he is spewing profanities left and right. Yavanna have mercy.) However, that love took time to build and weld. When completed, the finished product was a gem that was more entrancing and powerful than the Arkenstone itself.

Bilbo was not fearless. He feared death, loss, sorrow, pain, and his love for a certain king. Bilbo was a coward, but he wasn't at the same time. When faced with extreme personal matters that could shape the rest of his life and another's though, Bilbo could not rise up to the task of confession and had let Thorin go with a hypothetical storm cloud above him.

Gripping the banister tighter, Bilbo cast his eyes upon the night sky, disappointed to find that the moon had disappeared behind the clouds; blocked from his vision, his sight. If that wasn't a sign for him to take the first steps of what was sure to be the most uncoordinated, problematic, delicate, and altogether lovely courting, then Bilbo would have gladly gave Lobelia Sackville-Baggins his silverware.

_'It is absolutely a sign.' _Bilbo decided. He would head to Dale in the morning.

* * *

It was of chief importance that Bilbo's meetings did not go above their allotted time. He had plans, blast it, and Bilbo would shame his mother if he let Dáin and his ancient, profoundly intolerable advisors ruin them.

And Thorin was also avoiding him as if he were elf-spawn.

In general, Bilbo's monday was not going the way it usual did.

"Master Baggins, please excuse me but-"

"If you have to excuse yourself before you speak," Bilbo cut in, interrupting Hiríl before he could bring up the boarding situation–which had been settled already–again. "Then maybe it would be wise of you to not say whatever you were about to at all." At Hiríl's outraged expression and Dáin's unnervingly amused one, Bilbo huffed silently.

"Master Hiríl, I do not mean any disrespect but Erebor has provided you all she is able at the moment. Please respect and acknowledge that." Master Hiríl did not seem entirely charmed and forgiving, so of course, Bilbo had to play politics once more and hope to the Valar that it would not prevent him from carrying out his errands later on.

"There is one thing however," Bilbo added slyly. "The rooms in the southern district of the mountain are the same size and have all of the accommodations of the west. Alas, the southern wings have forgone great damage and only about a third of them have been repaired–still more than enough to fit your entourage might I add. It would take more dwarf power than Erebor can supply to repair them wholly by the next winter solstice."

Master Hiríl turned a knowing eye upon him. The frown drawn upon his face turned upside in realization. He called the eight other advisors in for confirmation and even the Iron Lord himself look highly pleased at the turn of events.

"Master Baggins," Master Hiríl addressed politely. "If you would allow the Iron Hills army and their leader to help salvage what is left of this great kingdom, we would be truly honored."

Bilbo held back a wide, victorious smile. Not only did he have a reason to confront Thorin later on, but now the southern district's construction rate would be tripled and the Iron Hill army wouldn't be congested the Western sect of the mountain.

"No, no, Master Hiríl. The honor is mine. Please, make yourselves at home." Bilbo all but crooned. The dwarves were dismissed shortly afterwards and all but Dáin, the Iron Hills lord himself remained seated.

Bilbo looked up from the official leasing contracts and raised a questioning eyebrow when Dáin cleared his throat loudly. "So Master Baggins," the armored dwarf began. "Trouble in paradise?"

Bilbo had very little tolerance for Daín Ironfoot on most days. The dwarf was cut from toughened stone and looked every inch of a warrior as was expected. Dáin dressed much more lavishly than Thorin whenever he traveled to Erebor than in his own kingdoms; the point he was trying to make?

Truth be told, Bilbo thought it was just playful cousinly competition and he was probably right. Moreover, Dáin had a impossible itch for nosing in on Thorin and Bilbo's relationship and loved harassing Bilbo whenever the opportunity made itself clear and known. There was something about Bilbo that Dáin didn't like and the feeling was reciprocated; Bilbo came to the conclusion that Dáin and Dori should meet, both having mother hen and protective streaks for their family and kin hundreds of miles wide.

"No, my lord. Erebor is on the road to a full recovery." Bilbo replied, putting on his best unamused face that he had learned from Thorin.

Dáin's eyes widened comically and stared at Bilbo hard until his boisterous laugh cheered through the room. "Oh Mahal, Master Baggins. You looked _just_ like Thorin when someone pushes his buttons." Dáin wobbled up out of his chair, and patted Bilbo heavily on the shoulder.

"Lad, you better not break my dear cousin's heart." His laughter had halted and Bilbo felt a little threatened. "But I can tell you finally learned that you love him and he finally stopped sulking and took action, judging from his usually filled seat..." He snickered at Bilbo's incredulous look.

"H-how did you deduce that?" He exclaimed. "From an empty seat and a facial expression!"

Dáin frowned. "Because when he greeted me today, Thorin was more worn down than usual. The lad looked like wet cat and a stretched too thin monarch at the same time."

"Oh." Bilbo supplied, sounding a little more than pathetic in his own ears. "I see."

Grunting, Dáin strode over to the door, giving Bilbo a critical once over before hovering by the entrance. "Do you? Do you really?"

Bilbo swallowed dryly. "I hope so, my lord."

"Well, if your hopes aren't dashed and shot to hell, you'll have to start calling me Dáin, you know,"

The Iron Lord grinned. "And I'll get to call you 'your majesty'."

"On you go, Lord Dáin. Politics and Diplomacy are waiting for you." Bilbo retorted, his impatience growing larger and his feet getting restless.

"As you wish." Dáin chuckled lowly in response and was on his way the next second, but not without muttering an indignant '_your majesty' _under his breath.

Honestly, all dwarven royals were grown children underneath the formal nonsense and the deadly combat skills.

Once left alone in the drafty room, Bilbo quickly shot up and fastened his traveling coat, a dark brown item that was cracked and torn from adventuring but still cozy and competent. "Alright," he muttered. "To Dale we go."

* * *

When Bilbo had stepped in front of the white warg, he didn't have a single notion as to what came over him, why would he do something so confoundedly stupid, and when was Thorin going to get up because that stupid arse better not be dead because he doesn't deserve such a death. A minuscule part of Bilbo felt pride in his actions, proving to Thorin that he truly did belong here, with him and the others. Bilbo had lifted his sword higher and snuck a glance at Thorin.

Thorin had looked bruised, battered, but _not_ beaten.

He was a true warrior king, still gnashing and bearing his teeth to his enemies while he waded in and out of consciousness; nevermind the disgustingly jagged blade that had been pressed to his burnt throat naught but a minute ago. He had to stop raking his eyes over the dwarven king's form for injuries when the hideous beast in front of him growled uglily, it's grotesque rider doing the same.

So Bilbo had swung his miniature sword (fun sized, Thorin had called it months later when all seemed to be well, just like him) and defended the unyielding but at the same time physically broken king.

They had been so close.

Bilbo had never seen the magnificence of Erebor and from the way Thorin's eyes had shone, it was something to behold. He was not going to let some pathetic Orc take that away from Thorin, from his friends slowly turning into something more.

Suddenly, the others who had not been held hostage upon a falling tree, had joined in as abruptly as he had. Kíli and Fíli screaming out battle cries while shooting immensely worried looks towards Thorin while they stabbed orcs down, Dwalin clobbering orcs left and right, and Oín trampling over anything in his path as he reared towards the fallen king.

Bilbo had stayed in front of Thorin, protecting him, until the eagles had arrived, and when he had received a truly heartfelt embrace from the stoic king, Bilbo had never felt so relived and accepted in his whole life (there bloomed the bud of respect that Bilbo held for Thorin. If it was ever more than respect back then, our dear hobbit did not understand. Nor did he seem to want to.) And when Thorin looked at Erebor, with eyes crinkled and shimmering with sheens of water that were glinting in the sun, Bilbo had known.

He was going to get those dwarves and their king home and try his very hardest to not get Thorin or himself killed on the way.

* * *

The trip to Dale was uneventful and bland but upon his arrival to the newly restored city, he marvelled at how far the demolished land had come. Bard had done the city well–more than well if you ask Bilbo. He soon, however, redirected himself from the aromatic bakery to a small cart filled with an abundance of flowers ranging from black to bright yellow, borderline white.

Bilbo picked out the flowers with wild fervour. He had thought over his plans and came to the conclusion that he would approach Thorin and ask for his acceptance in a purely hobbit fashion: a flower crown and/or bouquet expressing your feelings and declarations of undying love. Using the language of flowers to court a dwarven king was by far the most ridiculous thing Bilbo had ever thought of, but his mind was set and if there's one thing he had learned from the quest, it was that he was as stubborn as the rest of the dwarves.

Two honeysuckles, one rue, one red tulip, and one coral rose. The flower crown would be modest and not too flamboyant. Bilbo was not known for his great panache and he certainly wasn't going to suddenly change his mannerisms this late in the game.

Thorin would not appreciate that.

(Something warm and tight sparked in his lower stomach at the thought and a smile crept to his face, shining bright and crooked.)

From his spot by the florist's wagon, Bilbo could physically see the scrawny labourer reach across the top of the staccato tower's floor and forcibly yank the thick rope, ringing the black as death bell, the steady, alerting sound causing rotations to shift, events to begin, meetings to commence, life to go on in a chaotically organised fashion. It was time to go back to the mountain, he decided, holding the bouquet of flowers close to his chest.

There would be a certain amount of stealth, grace, and a little bit if white lying to Balin and Dís (maybe Thorin himself because the king, while obtuse at times, can also be scarily perceptive.)

That is why the job would be Bilbo's and Bilbo's only.

A/N: Reviews are welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Day One of Secretly Weaving a Proper Flower Crown Worn for Occasions of Courting and Matrimony for a Dwarven King:

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Bilbo's neck; he felt his dark golden curls dampening as a result. Not only had he returned from Dale with great caution and prudence to hiding his purchases and his true intentions, he had also been under the assumption that he had acted relatively normal during the nightly Durin Family Dinner (Kíli and Fíli had crossly named it: Mother Dís's time to hound us Durin men–especially us, Kíli yelled–on what we did today and how we felt about it and what were our exact thoughts when this and that occurred.)

Bilbo was wrong. He had been deceived by none other than Balin. When he thought back the old Dwarven advisor's past and previous uses of his omniscient abilities, Bilbo could say he was actually not all that surprised. For example, during the journey, Balin had immediately picked up on Kíli's adoration for an autumn haired ellith and how that adoration seemed to be requited. Balin had also seen the sideways glances Bilbo had been giving Thorin after the nasty event with what was that weasel of a Pale Orc. Balin had also knowingly pushed Dwalin and Ori closer and closer until they were literally touching.

Balin had also been planning for Bilbo to make the first move in courting Thorin because the sneaky old dwarrow knew his king was to caught up in memories of the past, of guilt, misery, pain that he could not seem to forget or forgive himself for.

So it was in the alcove by the drop in Bilbo's personal garden that Bilbo found Balin, reading a book nonetheless–romantic poetry to be precise.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes in suspicion and a hardy amount of defense. "Master Balin." He said calmly, his eyes darting to the piles of flowers and a carefully placed beginning of a crown in the corner of the alcove farthest from the old advisor.

His white beard pressing against the deep mahogany robes as he bowed his head slightly, Balin smirked. "A fine day today, isn't it, Master Bilbo. But enough with the pleasantries," Bilbo stiffened. "I think we both know why I am here." The elder dwarrow raised an amused eyebrow and crossed his arms over a humble potbelly. "Me lad, I cannot say that I am entirely shocked at the latest...let us say _developments_ between you and our esteemed King Under the Mountain."

With a great, heaving sigh, Bilbo tottered over to his old friend and counselor; leaning against the broad, skillfully carved oaken post besides Balin, Bilbo felt embarrassed at being caught so early in the race against time and nervous at the prospect of failure.

"Well then, my dear friend, you would be the only one."

Arching an intrigued brow, Balin looked at Bilbo curiously. "And what do you mean by that, Master Baggins? Thorin and yourself have been sneaking mischievous and needy glances at each other for more than a year now," Bilbo flushed a deep and natural red; had Thorin and he really been that obvious? "Now, don't be a blushin', Bilbo. Tis absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I, myself, am nothing short of highly pleased and ecstatic."

Bilbo looked at Balin incredulously. "What?" He exclaimed, taken aback. "You are agreeable to this-this courting? Here I thought I was going to be the only one on my side–with me stealing an extremely handsome and revered Dwarven king from Erebor's fertile female population."

Throwing his head back, Balin boomed with mirthful, boisterous laughter. His white as snow beard bouncing vivaciously and the ever growing wrinkles around his eyes crinkled in delight. "Oh no, Master Bilbo," Balin set his twinkling eyes on Bilbo's own. "When Thorin gradually accepts–and trust me, he will, lad so enough with that pitiful look- you would best be off looking out for angry dwarrowdams and no small amount of dwarrows." Bilbo gulped. "Everyone wants a king." Balin said coyly.

At that, Bilbo frowned heavily and fixed a reprimanding eye on the dwarrow before him. "I do not want to just court King Thorin. I want to court Thorin the dwarf, Thorin the warrior, Thorin the brooder, Thorin the surprisingly adept at cooking, Thorin the world's greatest sulker, Thorin the..."

Bilbo must have went on for ages, explaining the many different sides of Thorin–but equally loved–in summarized titles but Balin stayed put, and had an ear splitting grin on his face the whole time.

* * *

Thorin had been giving him secretive glances in a manner that could only be described as kingly and stealthily; it made Bilbo wonder how many others had fallen pray to the beautiful king's wayward gazes, but he did not ponder that subject for long. It had no relevance in the present. Regardless, Bilbo had returned them with wispy and wicked small smirks of his own, well, sort of. A proper gentlehobbit would not have been caught dead sensually smirking or even attempting such a trampish and tartish travesty, and while Bilbo had liked to think he winked and smirked and flaunted, he actually did not.

Bilbo floundered, flushed, and flirted like a teenage hobbit lass much to his utter dismay. It had been Thorin doing the smirking, not him, and while he had gained leverage a couple of times, it had been Thorin that ultimately won their strange game with his deep timber and glittering blue eyes.

Beorn's house had been what Bilbo labeled as a miracle. The company had blessedly received food, tailored and patched clothing, comfortable hay to rest on, drinks (including mead and ale), and a bloody well deserved rest. The mighty shape shifter had ushered Bilbo to his resplendent gardens that had made Bilbo's own seem amateur and Bilbo had all but collapsed on a safe patch of grass to take a deep, unburdened sleep.

Rest came to him in the form of soft lulls of wind and flower petals swirling, the benign critters of the garden detouring around the sleeping, travel-weary but hardened as well hobbit. Consciousness came to Bilbo in the form of a large, heavy hand gently pushing his right shoulder, attempting to awaken the exhausted hobbit with shoves to a limb.

"Th'rin," Bilbo had slurred as he hauled himself up and laid back on his elbows. To his surprise, the sun had already begun its daily descent and the moon had ascended as gracefully as it faded. "W'a is it you need?"

The austere dwarrow had seemed to reevaluate his life choices at that moment, if his pained sigh and ceaseless mumbling about his own follies had an importance; in the end, Thorin had peered down at below from under his long, thick lashes.

"Would you grant me the honor in carrying and only carrying you back to your bed roll, Master Baggins?" Thorin had asked whilst licking his thin, reddened lips.

Bilbo had been too focused on the sultry action that he had not registered Thorin's request. He had agreed anyway, placing his trust in the king-in-exile and hoping whatever he had agreed to was not too adventurous (ah, the irony). When strong, muscle-wrapped arms had lifted him with a tenderness Bilbo had never ever come close to imagining, the hobbit found himself burrowing into a sturdy, barreled chest, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains and the moon shine white rays of purity as he closed his eyes once more.

He had never felt so content.

XXXX

Day Two of Secretly Weaving a Proper Flower Crown Worn for Occasions of Courting and Matrimony for a Dwarven King:

Miscreants and clever little misfits, that was what the heirs to the throne of the once great and now rising Dwarven stronghold and kingdom of Erebor were: Devils.

Foresight had never been a gift granted to Bilbo but he could oversee a situation and predict (correctly) the possible outcomes and consequences. However, so could Thorin (for the most part), Balin, Dís, and maybe a few more dwarves and definitely some of the higher elves and quite possibly Gandalf (Bilbo had his doubts and reservations about that one though.) But that mattered not, at least not to Bilbo when he spotted Fíli and Kíli with a matching set of suspiciously happy grins and the pairs' theatrical swoons and faces as they began to stride behind their no-nonsense king and uncle.

Face paling and eyes widening in disbelief, Bilbo put two and two together, but the real question was: how in the world did those blubbering dwarf-princes found out about his intentions toward their Uncle Thorin? On the second day nevertheless! Instantly, his thoughts went to Balin and a particularly vicious strand of accusation arose. It immediately crumbled, however, when he saw a befuddled and equally dumbfounded look on Balin's face from across the hallway.

Right about then was when the elder dwarf advisor and the hobbit advisor to the king met each others noncomprehending stares and came to the conclusion that Fíli and Kíli had been playing them all along. There was certainly well hidden knowledge and skills that the two young princes harbored but apparently there was more than what was predominantly thought.

Balin's shoulders lifted imperceptibly and his mouth came open ajar in a slight degree. The dwarf looked hunkered down with work and all but full up with the tawdry affair of politics; not to mention the supervision and guiding of Dáin's company of soldiers in the Southern Sect of Erebor. Even Bilbo felt a bone deep tiredness, his limbs lagging behind while his brain signaled actions throughout his nervous system that he could not keep up with.

Thorin looked infinitely worse. His cousin's observation and none to polite examination of him appeared to have been the truth. Dáin's had always possessed a great amount of candor when speaking and debating with King Thorin and it should be no different when dealing with Thorin as a family.

For now, he would not do anything, Bilbo decided as he leaned against the wall discreetly. Let the princes think they have the upper hand for now, no harm would come and Bilbo was convinced that Fíli and Kíli had no plans of spilling his secret; consequently ruining his courting plans. If anything, the Dwarven princes would flank him in the hallway and badger him for details. Bilbo could definitely live with that over facing an incredibly awkward and possibly angered king because he heard rumors of a courting gift being made for the one and only: himself.

Later on in that day, when several congested and unnecessary meetings had been marked off his to-do calendar, Bilbo began padding down the hallway, his hands swaying unsurely by his sides and his nose crinkling in hopes of quelling the ails in his head when he came across two confident figures perched by his door, expressions twisted in sly, toothy grins and arms crossed over broad, Dwarven chests.

"So," Kíli began, his grin only growing wider as his eyes gleame.

"_Uncle_ Bilbo," Fíli ended, his own smirk making Bilbo take a deep breath and put his patience hat on.

There would be no rest for him now, it seemed.

* * *

Bilbo had been sick, clammy, cold, contagious, contrary, and miserable. The narrow escape by barrels had been his idea, but he had foolishly forgotten to add himself in the equation and that negligence resulted in him having to cling to Nori's barrel in fear of his life for a good four hours. Further actions on his behalf that did nothing to soothe the growing calamity in his body made his conditions worsen.

He had come down with a fever that had fiery fervor. His small hobbit body had been curled up under scratchy, sour-smelling blankets when a burning furnace-like heat pressed up against his shaking side. Sweat exuded from his forehead and the acrid smell clogged up his inflamed nostrils, but Thorin did not seem to mind. Bilbo most certainly did mind and he had been horrified to have a king so close to him when he smelled and looked and felt disgusting.

Bilbo had been very adamant about not letting Thorin near him and Thorin had agreed, complied to the demand with the grace of a rebellious fauntling.

"I am wearing gloves and will not bend down so as to breath the very air you release. I shall be fine," Thorin had grumbled defiantly, the stubborn tilt to his tone indicating that the dwarf king would, in fact, not be going anywhere anytime soon.

"No," Bilbo muttered uselessly. "Get out." He bossed aggressively; the gentlehobbit could hardly believe he had the nerve to speak to a blue blood like that, no propriety whatsoever, but propriety be damned, Thorin had been acting like a fool again. "Go." He added for flare.

The soon-to-be King Under the Mountain (if all went well) had just yanked out a shabbily constructed wooden chair and plopped down next to the edge of Bilbo's bed, a safe distance away but still close enough.

A hand ran gently along the sides of Bilbo's calf and the hobbit stirred at the electric shock that sparked his very soul.

"Let me tell you about Erebor, Master Baggins." Thorin had murmured, his giant hand resting near Bilbo's leg, the warmth had seeped past the blanket and acted like a soothing pad. "To ease your worries."

Bilbo had nodded and nudged his leg closer, ever so slightly.

"If you may begin, I'd be honored."

It was then, for the next thirty or so minutes, that Bilbo relaxed and swayed to the rich timbre of calm thunder. His head lulled back into the cushioned pillows as he rediscovered Erebor through the power of words and a captivating voice. Soon, Thorin had stopped abruptly before quietly getting up and placing a hand on the fragile wood post.

"I must attend to the others, and plan out the rest of the route to Erebor." He had declared in a finite manner, his spine straightened and eyes set forward.

Bilbo had held back a sorrowful sigh before reminding himself that Thorin was a dwarf who placed duty and home before anything else.

"Yes, of course." He whispered from underneath a poultice and two blankets.

The king had bowed his head slightly and taken his leave, but not before running a stray hand over the top of Bilbo's left calf.

It had not been just the fever that made Bilbo's cheeks color scarlet that day.

* * *

Day Three of Secretly Weaving a Proper Flower Crown Worn for Occasions of Courting and Matrimony for a Dwarven King:

The floor of Bilbo's room, or rather luxurious lair, was littered with stray and wilted flower petals and some strands twine to help maintain the crown shape and keep the flowers woven together. Being a hobbit, the task of making a flower crown came almost naturally to him and Bilbo was proud to say that if he was to continue working for another hour or two, he would be done.

A problem had arisen however, when the last flower had been weaved and straightened, a small Red Rose that had for perfectly in between the Angrec and Honeysuckle, Bilbo was coming down with what his mother had distastefully donned the 'wussy jitters'. Yes, he was nervous, rightfully so. It was not just everyday a hobbit asked a dwarven king for his permission and acceptance to start courting said king.

Balin had nudged him towards Thorin's door, charming smile hidden under layers of his thick white beard, Dís had been surprisingly indifferent about the whole affair but Bilbo knew better. He knew the dwarrowdam had inside knowledge from two dwarrows who shall not be named, Fíli and Kíli, and the hobbit was one hundred percent certain the royal lady knew about his fancy before he did.

He would not press. Bilbo already had three dwarves breathing down his neck, he did not want to add an imposing and feared dwarrowdam on top of that.

Bilbo sighed, setting the finished product atop of a deep blue pillow, one from his bed set, and flung himself backwards, his back crying out in pain and his head screaming obscenities when he hit the stone floor and missed the rug.

It was a defining chapter in his life, courting the King Under the Mountain; but be that as it may, Bilbo knew that if all went south, he would never regret his actions. The flower crown, to the outward eye, appeared elvish in make, something Bilbo could not necessarily help as that was just the way. He tried adding more flowers: Angrec, Arborvitae, and the classic Red Rose, and the result was noteworthy. The crown was befitting for the most prestigious hobbit lords and ladies, not overly flamboyant but elegant in a humble manner, just right–dwarven royalty? Well, Bilbo was going to have to gather his supposed courage and find out for himself.

There was a dour, condescending voice inside of him that constantly bore down pessimism, whispers of failure and fallacy. It was, sadly, a common occurrence to doubt himself when faced with personal issues. Bilbo knew that he was not the strongest, the bravest, the wisest being out there; that being said, when it came to matters of the heart, Bilbo, being an analytical and thoughtful hobbit, could not resist pondering the different scenarios that could take place after the awaited question.

Maybe he was moving to fast. Maybe Thorin only held interest in women, dwarrowdams, and not small, relatively hairless where it mattered, borderline plump hobbit males. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe... Perhaps it would be best to not go through with–

A brusque command roused him from his swirling negativism. "My Lord Baggins," There was a clink of metal, a sword clashing against armor. A royal guard of Erebor. "King Thorin had requested an audience with you on the morrow in Katûb-zahar."

Frowning slightly at the imposed title, Bilbo nodded to himself and called out a quick 'Âkminrûk zu!', his Khuzdûl coming out stunted but correct in pronunciation. It was his deliverance that needed some fine tuning, Balin had spoken comfortingly when all hopes seemed lost (Bilbo hated Khuzdûl and its intricate complexions–no wonder it was a secret, it was damned hard to grasp and had most likely scared off any foreign contenders.)

There was no reply from the guard and Bilbo hoped that his usage of the secret Dwarven language would not cause strife or uneasiness. I mean, Bilbo thought causally, I must practice sometime. Then the actual words declared by the squire-guard hit him.

He would be going to see Thorin the next day.

It was then and there that Bilbo Baggins summoned up some fiercely Tookish courage and all but stormed out of his room, leaving decorum and prosperity dumbfounded at the foot of the bed. No more wussy jitters, Belladona would be proud. No. He would ask Thorin right then or he would not ask at all. It was a silly–no, preposterous–conclusion but Bilbo honestly could not find a caring bone in his body.

The flower crown had taken him two days, several hours each day, and Bilbo's hidden streak of impatience reared its ugly head in full force.

Onwards to the king, he thought as he stomped out of the room, and may the Mahal not laugh at me too much.

* * *

Smaug. Smaug had been everything evil and all that was abhorred wrapped inside of a tremendous, petrifyingly frightful body. A dragon born from the power of the dispossessed and sinister Vala, Melkor himself.

Bilbo was a hobbit. A creature born into sunny fields, blossoming gardens, homely smials, cozy clothes, and loving families. Coddled and well fed Bilbo had been, and he never felt ashamed of it, his heritage and lifestyle. Sure, he may have cursed the simplicity of it all when tumbling down hundreds of feet into a cave with a mangled goblin and a crazed monster, when fighting giant spiders birthed from dark magic from Dol Guldûr, when clutching the edge of a tattered wine barrels whilst tumbling down river rapids.

But never was he ashamed.

As he had been stepping into Erebor however, the pungent smell of decayed flesh and unclean _something_ overwhelmed his senses, causing him to fumble backwards a few steps, his sword had nosily clattered against the walls.

Death was all around. Death was Smaug.

Bilbo had felt nauseous, terrified, and never more angered at anything in his life. He could not help but think of how thousands of good dwarfs had died while he dined on sweets and syrupy juices. He could not help but think about how the scattered piles of skeletons and broken bones placed randomly along Erebor's walkways used to be people, living and breathing.

Thorin's people. His coworkers, comrades, friends, his family.

Injustice. Unfairness. Bad luck. Cruelty. Many things could describe the uncalled for fate that the dwarves faced but as Bilbo had tripped downwards as the gold shifted beneath his feet, rage overcame unadulterated fear and one word came to his mind: murder. A thousands of pounds, pure muscle and magic abomination reigned down hellish evils upon the dwarf of Erebor, for what? Silly old gold.

Bilbo had known Thorin was slipping. He had seen it in the way the dwarven king's eyes flashed black when he looked towards Erebor. He had seen it in the way Thorin had coldly dismissed him into the mountain, not a hint of gratefulness or shy friendliness (or something more) that he had directed towards Bilbo after the Carrocks. He had been just Master Burglar at that point and Bilbo had not been sure what hurt more, losing Thorin's affections or seeing him slowly lose his mind.

So when he had faced Smaug, legs quaking and hands shaking, his voice remained strong, with only the slightest tremors. Bilbo had not been willing to die, even though he had been prepared, but he had been willing to fight for his dwarven friends and the one they bowed to as king. Bilbo had spoken with the silver tongued monster, eyes scanning the acres of gold in search for the one thing Thorin desired–it made Bilbo's heart clench and stomach churn–, the Arkenstone.

He had not found it. A dragon had been in his way, but Thorin would not listen to his reasoning, his pleads of disbelief.

The hobbit had looked into his leader and friend's eye to find nothing resembling the dwarf he had once known. Not even when a deadly sharp tip touched its offending blade to the skin of his neck did Bilbo yell. All he did was whisper disbelievingly, his voice cracking and heart breaking.

"Master Burglar," Bilbo had shut his eyes and squeezed. "Where is the Arkenstone?"

If I find it and give it to you, will you come back to me? "I did not find it," the blade pressed closer, the tip breaking the firs few layers of delicate skin. "Thorin," He whispered frantically.

Thorin had just growled, his eyes burning black hate and scorn. The dwarven king stayed like that for weeks, stayed in a maddened state of crazed lust for treasure and not once did he look at Bilbo as he did before.

One night, Bilbo had traversed out to the battlements to watch the moon rise when he came across Thorin doing the same. The king had forced half of the company that day to begin on Erebor's main gate and the other half to take painstakingly high measures to find the glittering rock that Thorin desired with all of his being and he had not seemed to stop searching for many hours. He honestly wanted to talk, _chat_ with Thorin but Bilbo soon realized that the moon cast an eerie shadow over the dwarf, blanketing him in a dark shadow that made Bilbo's skin crawl. The dwarf that had been in front of him had not been Thorin.

He had patted the bulge in his pack with a disgusted leer, hoping the unnatural glow of the gem did not shine through the leather.

The next steps that he would take had been clear to him then, and Bilbo had known in that moment that, no matter the repercussions, he would see his Thorin back whether the dwarrow wanted it or not.

"There are people who love you, who cannot see how you are falling. But I can," Bilbo had said to Thorin's back internally. "And I will use that love to help you, no matter what you say or do."

The shadow only grew, almost challenging him, darker and wider and Bilbo had stalked of to the camp of the Elves and Men immediately.

* * *

_**A/N: Reviews are welcomed and wanted. Thank you for reading! Not beta'd.**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: For Once and For All**

* * *

Bilbo felt fearless for once in his life, nevermind the fact that he was practically pulsating with said fear. It all just built up and morphed into adrenaline. Yes, that was it; the walls were most definitely _not_ shaking and the stout guard in front of him was _not_ warping into some strange being. One thing, however, stayed perfectly untouched and un-meddled with by the devious inner forces of Bilbo's mind: the vast archway leading to the Katûb-zahar; it was covered in coveted gems and furnished with sheets of sparkling gold that shimmered something gorgeous in the otherworldly glow of Erebor. Not even a nervous hobbit's inner woes could transform such a beauty.

Magnificent arcs aside, Bilbo was actually not entirely sure as to where the king was located, so he went with his heart leading the way. Thorin always overworked himself and his offices were placed sanctimoniously in the learning center, even if they had originally been in the royal chambers for familial access. Family was not first to kings, it was the kingdom, and while Bilbo understood the notion, he thought the morality of it all rather skewed. But who was he to judge? Bilbo had never run a kingdom or even thought of such a horror.

Thorin had called him out on his overbearing humbleness when the two had been sorting through trade restrictions and announced that '_Bilbo Baggins, you might not be a king, but you have brought out all that is good and cast away all that is evil in me. Please, my friend, you have made me a better king by just being yourself. Such a gift is worthy of only the most revered and just beings, whether you see it or not."_

Bilbo shook his head at the memory, his heart swelling and nerves slowly stopping their furious dance. Looking around the modestly occupied hall, Bilbo clutched the plain wooden box that held his courting gift in his hands, assessing the different observations around him (and watching for certain meddling dwarves.) None of the dwarves in the hall, however, stared or peered at him with a unsure, untrusting, or even disgust filled gaze any longer. Those rude actions had died down after a devastation in the form of an unstable mining tunnel. The gentlehobbit had offered aid to the families afflicted and helped the survivors get the proper nutrition and medical attention they needed without anybody having to ask. In a few weeks, Bilbo had gained the favor of all of Erebor when he successful tended and saved a dwarven child's life. The child, Turgen, had been bringing his father lunch when the mine collapsed. His arm had been splinted and a sharp rock had been protruding out of his small belly.

Oín had stitched up the child and gave him a plethora of ointments but none seemed to do the trick. No longer was it a secret that when Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire, healed Turgen in a span of two weeks, with Oín's, Halía's (Turgen's mother), and Durgen's (Turgen's father) help of course, he had become something of chief importance to the Ereboreans.

Nothing compared to a child's life for the dwarves. Even their own respective lives.

The shift in relations between a single hobbit and thousands of dwarves had been incredible and the newfound respect all but thrown at Bilbo was met with glee. It was the thoughts of such a feat that pulled Bilbo closer and closer to Thorin's offices. His feet had stepped into a rhythm of their own, left, right, left, right, pause and compose oneself, repeat. Once he was past the archway and officially inside the halls of the sacred temples of knowledge, Bilbo quietly took weary and small steps, rhythm breaking and palms sweating. The oaken box felt too smooth and slippery in his hands, too heavy and cumbersome despite it being of a perfectly acceptable size.

Bilbo realized, as he further stepped ahead and chanted positive words of motivation, that what he was doing could be seen as rash and rude. Storming into a king's office without any announcements or warning was never a sane move. Sure, he was close, very close, to the King Under the Mountain but maybe barging into Thorin's offices unannounced would only anger him. Mind racing, Bilbo knew that his current thoughts were treacherous and only served to confuse. Ever since he had been a child, Bilbo would work himself up into a tizzy thinking about the what ifs and buts. The gentlehobbit absolutely loathed making a scene, preferring to settle matters privately and resolutely.

Perhaps, Bilbo thought as he continued walking, Perhaps it is best that I do this now before I give in to my doubts. He set forth with renewed energy and frazzled, frayed nerves, remembering Lady Dís's words from months ago when Thorin and he had fallen into a terrible fight:

"There are many naysayers in this world, Bilbo," Dís had said with a calm motherly demeanor that reminded Bilbo so so much of his own. "But the strongest one always comes from yourself. Do not let your doubts hold you down. Go and tell my oaf of a brother how much of an arse he is, and he will do the same to you. Then Mahal, go and make up, for these last few days have utter hell for the rest of us."

Chuckling at the memory, Bilbo sidestepped a marble beam and took a deep breath. There it was, the entryway to the King Under the Mountain's offices, glimmering blue sapphires, fiery red garnets that flickered in the gleam of Erebor, and slivers of breathtaking opal decorated the impressive and grand doors of silver. Runes, ancient dwarvish, and Khuzdûl were engraved by a skillful, perfecting hand hundreds of years ago. The majesty of it all was not a soothing benefactor and did not, at all, help to prepare him for another sort of majesty, equally imposing, that was possibly lurking behind the doors.

So with a light but determined push, Bilbo opened the twin doors, leading into another hallway, smaller but more elegant than the last, with a multitude of rooms whose purposes ranged from noble libraries to a place for war councils. On the ceiling were masterfully done frescoes whose various elements formed into a larger scheme, the creation of the dwarvish race and the awakening of the seven founding fathers, as Bilbo padded down the hallway with silent steps.

Awed by the secret artistry and the level of beauty of the frescoes, Bilbo was forced to pinch himself into awareness once more. The Dwarves had always been quite odd and warlike to him, but seeing such a beautiful and classical side to them make his heart ache all the while.

The hallway was not long like the others in Erebor that seemed to go on for miles and cut off into separate districts and dwellings that where filled with life and prosperity, so Bilbo reached the last and largest room of them all quite quickly. Without an ounce of hesitance but all the nervousness in the world, Bilbo knocked, once and then twice for good measure. He paid no mind to the stone-like guards lining the hall, and waited for that familiar low and regal voice to call out.

"Enter and state your purpose." Commanded Thorin from inside the room and Bilbo complied, sweaty hands holding the box with a white knuckled severity.

Opening the door, Bilbo stepped in and smiled weakly. Thorin looked up at him with confused, tired eyes and a hard set to his lips.

"Master Baggins? I thought our meeting was tomorrow?" Thorin slowly put down a rather bleak and plentiful stack of papers.

Bilbo nodded and fiddled with the latch of the box. "Oh yes-well you see, I actually wanted to, um, ask you something that is rather important and it seems like I could not have waited one more day to do so and I am sorry if I am hindering your work schedule or anything but I must do this now or I will never gather up the courage to confront you again." He took a deep breath and red filled his cheeks generously after he realized he had been rambling. "I am sorry." He added lamely.

Thorin stared at him with cold eyes that made Bilbo cringe, his emotions were locked up behind an impenetrable wall that Bilbo hated with all of his might. With a imperceivable tilt of his head, Thorin's gaze reached the box. "What...what is in there-that box-Master Baggins?" He ventured and Bilbo was baffled and taken aback to see the nervous twitch Thorin got in his hands whenever he felt anxious or highly uncomfortable.

Bilbo felt a little sickened at himself. He did not mean to make Thorin feel uncomfortable, nor did he mean to cause him any more distress. Looking closely at Thorin, Bilbo saw unhealthy bags forming under his eyes and sick looking sheen across his face. Thorin was becoming ill from duties and stress and Bilbo would only make it worse. This was not a good idea, Bilbo thought acidly to himself as he stood out of place in the office.

Shaking his head, Bilbo laughed quietly and void of mirth. "You know, my king, I am afraid I have had much too drink today. I ask of you to forgive me for my impertinence and to forget this...this meeting. I-I am, I must take my leave."

"Master Baggins!" There was a scrape of wood against stone and Bilbo cringed outwardly. There was no escaping now. "You are flushed but not from alcohol." Thorin observed with a spot on perception that Bilbo had forgotten the intelligent and educated dwarf had. "You are sweating but not from exertion." The king moved forward, almost stalking towards Bilbo with graceful and strong steps. "You are avoiding my eyes but not out of dislike."

The King Under the Mountain had drew closer and closer to his hobbit adviser until he was only inches away. The king leveled his eyes upon his hobbits', even though the latter's were not upon him. "You are trembling, out of fear. Why are you afraid, Bilbo?"

It did not sit well with Bilbo, having Thorin so close and taking him apart with his blasted observations and deep voice that caused shivers to dance down Bilbo's neck. "I am not afraid." Bilbo asserted with bite.

"Then tell me, my dear adviser and hobbit," A large hand gently settled in the curve of his shoulder and neck. "What is in the box?"

With a resigned sigh and a grim outlook, Bilbo all but shoved the box into Thorin's chest. He was pleased to note that Thorin, as always, did not don any sort of jewelry. He dressed as he always had, and no matter what he wore, Thorin would always look like the king he was.

"Open it." He ordered, his blush prevalent and strong but his heart meek and down in his stomach. "And know how much I love you."

* * *

The grip on his neck had been so very brutal, so very vicious, so very strong. Bilbo had not been able breathe, his feet had not been able to find purchase on stone nor ground. His eyes had begun seeing white and black and blotches of dwarves, tears.

He had been dying and Thorin was killing him.

No, he had screamed internally because he could not speak, That is not my Thorin.

Gold sickness, that is what Bilbo had overheard Elrond and Gandalf conversing heatedly about. Is Thorin Oakenshield strong enough to resist the sickness that lies upon his line? The curse of his birth? The answer had been no. Thorin had succumbed entirely the moment Smaug died. He had been lost to Bilbo the moment he stepped into Erebor.

In panic and haste, Bilbo had bartered away a shiny piece of rock that he loathed oh so much. The Arkenstone was the bane of his existence. It poisoned his family and set out to destroy the dwarf he had come to love deeply and with passion. Never could he forgive, and never could he forget. But what Bilbo had never forgotten was Thorin's unwavering love for that rock as it made him seethe with anger and hate every time the name came out of the King's mouth. However, he had never foresaw being murdered whilst he dangled from Erebor's vast battlements.

"You miserable hobbit!" Thorin had repeated, shaking Bilbo every time he said it. "What have you done!" He roared, eyes black as coal and lips upturned into an animalistic snarl.

Small hands smacked and clawed at the thickly muscled arm that held him in the air. "Thorin...Thorin p-please." Bilbo croaked, his vocal cords flaming and stinging. "P-ple-ease."

It had only been after Gandalf's pleas that Thorin's unrelenting grip had wavered, Bilbo's feet registering the ground as he had been thrown upon the stone like a stray cat, twisting his ankle in the process.

"Get out of my sight, you traitor. Leave and never come back. You have no friendship of mine." Thorin had spat with such furious pain that Bilbo felt his heart stop and tears well up.

"Very well, Master Oakenshield. But heed my words, you will come to regret this." He had spit out, too overwhelmed and injured. His Thorin was lost to him, he had been able to see that then.

Bilbo had limped away with a broken mind and heart. Looking up to the sky, Bilbo had wanted to scream curses to the Valar. How could they have done this to him? To the dwarves? To Thorin? Why must they fail when they had only just succeeded? It was poppycock and everything in between. There was nothing that could offer him peace expect the health and sanity of his gold addled friends-his family.

Gandalf had later approached him with caution and did not press the too silent hobbit for anything. He had merely set a heavy hand upon Bilbo's shoulder and murmured a heartfelt apology that only served to darken Bilbo's spirits even more.

Then there was war-grisly, ghastly, execrable war and Bilbo had not found a single praise to the Valar in his body.

* * *

Thorin paused, every muscle in his body had instantly froze. His eyes were widening minutely as the seconds sped past and his mouth opened in shock. Bilbo fought against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and run, so he stood straight and proud. Well, at least he hoped he appeared as such for on the inside his emotions were engulfed in chaos, his heart beats away from splattering on the dark blue and gold rug beneath him.

"M-my apologies, Master Baggins, but...I" Thorin was dumbstruck, and Bilbo watched the dwarf king's face turn ashen and then an angry red with a twisted stomach and curled feet. "I-"

"No no," Bilbo said haltingly, holding one of his hands up in a placating manner. "I understand com-completely, your majesty. I," He sighed, but it came out more like a stifled sob. No, he would not lose his composure. Not like this. "I was taking a big risk and putting our friendship on the line for something so trivial as my more then friendly feelings for you." Bilbo stepped back, downcast and fully humiliated by his obvious rejection. Bowing slightly, Bilbo looked back up at Thorin, who looked horrified at his actions. "P-please forgive me, King Thorin."

Thorin had turned even more red than before and Bilbo had half a mind to skirt out and hightail it out into the corridor to someplace safe, away from the king's wrath. He almost did, jerking to the left to turn around, until a powerful hand entrapped his upper arm and squeezed almost painfully.

"No! Do not go!" Thorin had raised his voice and the angry flush spanned out to his ears. A traitorous and highly agreeable (and rather large) part of Bilbo's mind cooed over how cute the king's reddened ears were, but he quickly shakes those thoughts off, seeing as how they were treated with horror and anger by the recipient. "Let me speak, Bilbo! For once!"

Bilbo shrunk back for a moment before regaining his confidence. He shimmied his arm out of the kingly dwarrow's grasp and narrowed his eyesight on Thorin and Thorin only. "Then speak, my liege. There is no one to stop you from doing as such, so speak your feelings, and not hurtful words that will end out friendship." Bilbo snapped, his wits at an end and head pounding something awful.

"Hurtful words?!" Thorin exclaimed, stepped so close to Bilbo that his hair fanned atop of the hobbit's shoulders, that the tip of his boots shyly touched Bilbo's smooth toes. "Is that what you think of me?" He reverted to a gentle whisper and a hand snaked up to softly cradle Bilbo's chin. "A mindless brute who would knowingly hurt you just because it was in his power to do so? Am I that low of a being in your eyes?"

Maybe it was because Thorin's eyes shone with true hurt, or maybe it was because Bilbo honestly could not stand such slander about the dwarf he loved. "No, your majesty," The gentlehobbit sighed wearily.

"Thorin, my name is Thorin. You of all people should know that." The King Under the Mountain huffed, anger seeping into his tone. "I might be a king, but I am highly honored and very, very," Thorin's hand tightened under Bilbo's chin and with tenderness, pulled the hobbit in closer, noses touching and Thorin's peppermint breath puffing out as he breathed outwards. "Very blessed to have your love."

Bilbo faltered, his stomach coiling even tighter but not in displeasure. His heart resumed it's beats, but in more of a steadfast nature, fueled by hope. "My King Thorin," He whispered, his breath hitching. "Will you open the box?"

"Yes," Thorin replied, so close that his body heat warmed the very core of the hobbit. Like a striking furnace that kindled even the smallest of fire, like the sun caressing gardens upon fields of plant life, tending to them and bestowing vitality with every rat. Bilbo was no poet, but for Thorin, he would try and compose a few sonnets if he could, as cheesy and embarrassing as it was. And somehow, Bilbo knew Thorin would do the same. "It would be my upmost pleasure."

The King Under the Mountain led his trusted and very much adored advisor, who happened to be a hobbit of great making, to one of the couches, leather, dyed indigo at an unscrupulous price, and carefully deposited himself next to the hobbit he could have lost due to his own social awkwardness.

Thorin plucked up the hopelessly plain oaken box with a heavy and pessimistic heart. He did not think that Bilbo would play a prank on him to this degree, that would be uncharacteristically cruel of the hobbit and would most definitely cause a strain in their relationship. Just because the box was not decked in Erebor's finest gems did not mean it was some atrocious joke. Hobbits are different from us dwarves, Thorin reminded himself as his hand hovered over the latch. As Bilbo told me months ago, they show their love through food and flowers.

Surprised that Bilbo had mustered up the courage to awkwardly slide into his office and attempt to ask for his and shocked that his advisor apparently loved him, when all this time he was under the impression that he was a pathetic old dwarrow who had chosen an unrequited love for his One. His affections for the hobbit ran deep and true, like the veins of mithril in Khazad-dûm. However, it had taken more than just an adventure for his thick nature to understand the depth of his feelings. Thorin had respected Bilbo deeply after the gentlehobbit had, well, saved his life. Thorin had, quite promptly, fallen in love when Bilbo practically became the unnamed saviour of his kingdom: helping Thorin with his paper work, attending those bastard council meetings and keeping the calm with a bounce of those toffee curls that burned golden in the light, saving a child from death's hand, and the most important, being Bilbo and by his side through thick and thin.

It had been hard, to accept his love for Bilbo. It was not a matter of being both male, it was the fact that they were of different races and Thorin was a dwarrow of many, many faults that the king could never forgive himself for harbouring. He had attempted kill Bilbo, murder him over the Arkenstone. When he thought himself dead, Thorin had felt the tears puddle in his eyes when Bilbo did what he could not.

* * *

"To forgive and forget," Thorin had forced out, his chest wrapped in layers upon layers of medicinal cloth and several jars of ointment slathered over his skin to ease the pain. "You have surpassed me in all aspects, kindly child of the west. You have forgiven me and I give you my friendship and affection back. There is no one else who deserves it to the extent that you do, Bilbo Baggins."

"Oh hush, you!" Bilbo had cried, his nimble fingers dancing frantically over Thorin's chest. "Why do you speak with such finality, my dear friend? Surely this is not the end?" He questioned with sad, sad eyes that reminded Thorin of his lovely Dís when her One died.

Thorin's sigh turned into a harsh hack, upturning blood unto the furs that graced his cot. "Master Baggins, I am afraid that my body is spent and my heart literally crushed," Thorin had informed regretfully, preparing himself for the Halls of Waiting. He was not afraid of death; no, he was deathly afraid of seeing his nephews, his little lion and little bird, there with him. "My heirs..." And Bilbo spoke none, his face turning ghostly white.

"I...do not know. No one does. They are not dead but the healers have done all they could. It is up to them now, the fate of their lives." Bilbo had mourned quietly.

"If...If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But, sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell." Thorin had spoke as his vision was filled with black splotches and his head with voices from the past. "Farewell, Bilbo."

Then it was silent. Silent for many, many days. Silent for what felt like decades until Thorin opened his eyes with a bedraggled Kíli and Fíli nestling their troublesome selves on either side of him. Oín had been putting around in the corner and his burglar had been resting in a chair, the bags under his eyes stark and his hair filthy.

Thorin had closed his eyes, allowing the tears to fall, and blessed Mahal.

It was then, that Oín chose to yell out, "None of that, King Under the Mountain! Buckle up, laddie. You got a kingdom to run!"

Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli had all startled awake and with mirthful cries, his precious sister-sons had thrown themselves atop of him, mindful of his healing wounds. When the two dwarrows noticed streams of tears running down their impassive uncle's cheek, they had been at a complete loss for words for a moment before tears of their own glassed over their eyes.

"Uncle," Fíli had said, adoration lacing his tone, with such tenderness that Thorin almost saw his mother. How much have his young lads grown without him realising?

"We-we love you." Kíli had finished, burrowing his face into Thorin's bandaged neck despite how awful he must have smelled.

Resting a hand on each of his nephew's cheeks, Thorin smiled widely and freely, his face muscles straining from the unusual movement. "And I love you as well, you two rascals." The two dwarrows shyly smiled back before Oín tugged at their collars.

"Oi, lads! Get off of your uncle this minute! Look at 'em! He's gone loony and he's still recuperating!" Oín growled as he gently pried the two dwarrows who were wrapped around their uncle away into their own cots. "And you!" Oín turned to Thorin. "Don't you ever go and almost die on me again, my king. I'll make you wish you never died." The old dwarf hissed harshly, and Thorin did not point out his swollen eyes and trembling lips.

"Aye, you have my word, Oín." Thorin had replied in all honesty.

"Damn straight! I'd better have your word!" Oín muttered belligerently before motioning to an offending stack of papers by Thorin's cot. "And Balin left you some work for almost dying, your majesty." Oín crowed, entirely too happy at the prospect of an injured king slaving over boring paperwork.

Thorin had sighed. Maybe he should have just never woken up.

* * *

"Thorin?" Bilbo said hesitantly. "Are...Are you alright?"

With a start that he would never admit to having, Thorin nodded and unlatched the box hurriedly, pointedly ignoring Bilbo's sharp intake of breath. While the box might have been plain on the inside, on the inside was the single most peculiar and gorgeous crown ever had he seen. Unbeknownst to Bilbo, Thorin had deemed it as his sole duty on one Sunday afternoon to memorize and study the language of flowers for his dear advisor had desperately wanted, needed, a garden. Thorin had not wanted to be in the dark about anything having to do with Bilbo, so in the secrecy and privacy of his office, he had taken to teaching himself the basic meanings and colours of each of the flowers that he could.

Bilbo would have been so pleased, exceedingly touched and merry if Thorin had told him, but pride won over and he would not be seen as the dwarven king who fawned over a hobbit by learning the language of flowers without having his love requited. So he kept his mouth shut, until the day the wishes of his heart were granted.

"Honeysuckles, rue, red tulip, a rare coral rose, angrec, arborvitae, and red rose. Honeysuckles for affection, red tulips for undying l-love, a coral rose for desire," Thorin ran a finger over the crown and reined in his uncontrolled breathing. "Angrec for royalty, oh you clever thing." He chuckled and Bilbo continued looking at him as if he bore three heads. "Arborvitae for ever...lasting friendship, rue for regret," Thorin paused, confusion and fury replacing the passionate warmth that flooded his body and heart. "Bilbo?"

The hobbit in question made a small noise of surprise before his small, soft hands curled around the King Under the Mountain's. "Rue is for regret, yes. I regret doing many things to you, hurting you as I should never had." At that nonsense, Thorin opened his mouth to loudly protest about who really hurt who and take the full blame when a bold finger pressed itself against his lips. "Hush," Bilbo said with a bemused smile. "Since you are quite the expert, indulge me tell me the last flower, Thorin."

Thorin flushed, his cheeks heating and a unbidden shiver rolling down his spine like an avalanche. "Red-Red rose," he stumbled, never having felt such a raging desire to be with a certain person before. "Deep love..."

"And?" Bilbo pushed, his blue eyes sparking with such a happiness that Thorin could not help but squeeze the hand that had fit into his own.

"Affection. Deep love and affection." Thorin said quietly, his eyes darting from Bilbo to the crown held tightly in his hands. "Bilbo,"

"Yes, Thorin?" The hobbit answered, eyes still plastered on Thorin's face with a pleased but serious gaze.

"I accept to this courting with all of my heart." Thorin turned to face Bilbo, the two in closer proximity than before. "I will make you gifts made out if the most splendid gems. I will attempt to cook only salted pork for I know how much you hobbits love food. Mahal, I would most likely given in and assist you in gardening if you truly wished it."

Bilbo looked immensely touched. "You love me." He said whilst grinning.

With a disbelieving scoff, Thorin chuckled. "Aye, Bilbo, my dearest friend and treasure. I love you and you love me." He said as he motioned for Bilbo to place the crown on his head. "Is that gold? In the interior?" He asked curiously.

"Why yes it is." Bilbo replied as he readjusted the crown. "I wanted to incorporate something dwarvish so you would not be too embarrassed." He confessed nervously before patting down Thorin's hair and looking mighty pleased with his creation. "Oh good, it fits. I made Balin take the measurements from your other crown. It looks beautiful as do you."

"Let us make one thing clear, Bilbo Baggins." Thorin said deeply and cursed at himself when Bilbo jerked back at the rough tone. "You will never embarrass me. I will wear this crown proudly and everyday if it was your wish. You are my ghisvashel, and there can be no other."

Leaning forward, Bilbo closed the gap between them and placed a gentle, teasing kiss to Thorin's lips before pulling back. Thorin himself, a bit taken aback by the boldness and all together incredibly enamored, lifted a hand to the back of Bilbo's head to pull their foreheads closer until their brows touched..

"I will love you with all of my being till the end of my days, Bilbo Baggins." Thorin's hand meshed into Bilbo's curls and Bilbo daringly kissed Thorin's cheek in reply. "Stop that, you seducer of certain dwarf kings that go by the name of-"

"Thorin Oakenshield!" Bilbo puffed.

"Yes, that is what I was going to say."

"Will you stop rambling and oh I do not know, kiss me?" The hobbit placed a hand on Thorin's arm and squeezed. "In this lifetime, maybe?"

Placing a quick and hard kiss on Bilbo's lips, because he was a traditional dwarf and seemed to love to torture himself, Thorin grinned and stood up, hand intertwined with Bilbo's.

"No more until we are married, hmm? Come and let us share the joyous news."

Bilbo did not have the heart to tell him that every one had already known, and it was just them-the fools-who seemed to be blind. About the no touching however, he and Thorin-he had forgotten the dwarf was a noble traditionalist-would have to divulge in a little talk about certain needs later.

"Yes, my dear king. Lead the way, for I will always guide and follow." The gentlehobbit spoke truly.

"As long as you hold my hand, Bilbo." Thorin murmured, bowed his head, and cursed loudly when the crown because lopsided. "I shall prevail."

* * *

**A/N: And we are done, folks! I enjoyed writing this and it was a pleasure to hear from some of you about what you thought and your reactions. **

**I might write an epilogue, but only if people actually want one lol. This last chapter was so so cheesy and the fluff oozed. ****_Oozed_****. But hey, I couldn't resist it. Hopefully, you readers enjoyed it as well.**

**Leave a review, comment, feedback and thank you for reading!**


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